Motivation
by orangesunset12
Summary: In another world, Bruce's parents never died in that alleyway. He never went to the circus, never parked in that alleyway, and never donned the cowl. In another world, the family never found each other. But fate works in mysterious ways...
1. We're not in Kansas anymore, Ace!

Dick Grayson looked through the windscreen up at the dark clouds, threatening rain.

God, he thought, did daytime ever come to Gotham?

"You'll get used to it, kid," Jim assured him, following his line of sight. "Soon you'll forget the sun altogether."

Dick grinned. "Vitamin D supplements must be big business here, huh?"

Jim Gordon, commissioner of the Gotham City Police Department, gave him an appraising look. Officer Grayson was lean, with messy black hair covering his head. He leg was jiggling incessantly, indicative of the energy and childlike behaviour he was famous for. His eyes, though- so bright they almost pierced the dark- betrayed his intelligence and wisdom.

Gordon had been surprised when he'd heard about the transfer. Grayson had an impeccable record, sure, and a reputation that was basically a fluff piece. He'd had the chance to go anywhere- but Gotham?

A normal cop wouldn't even think about it, let alone one who had a history with this place like Grayson.

"Is that it?"

Gordon blinked, shocked out of his daze. He realised he was just pulling up into the Police Department's garage, swerving into the narrow entrance.

"Yeah, it is," he replied. "Look different from Bludhaven's department, huh?"

"Everything looks different here," the younger man mused, staring with wide eyes.

They got out of the car just as the first few raindrops started to fall. It soon grew to a drizzle, and then to a downpour, so fast that they had only a few minutes before it was basically torrential. They ran quickly into the welcome shelter of the building, as thunder sounded in the distance.

"Wow," Grayson remarked. "Is the weather like this all the time?"

Gordon laughed. "Only if it's a day ending in y. You wanna go first?"

"Uh... are they nice?"

The commissioner mulled this over. Nice? Sure, as any cop who'd seen the worst could be, he supposed. But 'nice' and 'corrupt' often go hand-in-hand, as Gordon knew all too well.

"Only if you're nice to them," he finally replied.

"Ok then," Grayson said, pausing as if to gather confidence.

He took a deep breath, and opened the door.

* * *

Jason Todd took a drag of his cigarette.

He casually put his feet up on the table, leaning his head against the heel of his palm. Black Mask slammed his hands on the desk.

"Hood! Are you listening?"

"Mmm? No, not really. What did you say again?"

Black Mask sighed and pinched the space where his nose used to be. Usually, he wouldn't associate himself with someone so young, not to mention aggravating. But Red Hood had a reputation for being successful and for asking little-to-no questions, which to Black Mask was a win-win situation.

If only he wasn't so goddamn annoying.

"I need you to take the commissioner out," he reiterated with a twitch of his eye. "He's been too close to exposing my little operation here, and for some reason refuses to be bought out. I'll show him who he's messing with!"

Red Hood snorted. "Ok, ok, save the bad guy monologue for later. I want my money."

"You'll get your money," Black Mask seethed, "after you bring Gordon's head to me."

Jason stiffened, bringing his legs down from the table. "Do you think I'm an idiot? Cash now, or the head I'll have will be yours."

"And do you think I'm a doormat? You are inside my building, with my guards all around you. I don't think you want to piss me off."

Red Hood grumbled slightly, but stayed silent.

"Now, you will have your money if you pull it off. Or the deal is off."

"...Fine."

Jason clenched his fists and gritted his teeth. He didn't like it, but there was no other choice. He needed that money, and he needed it quick.

"So," he said, trying to mask his discomfort. "When are we going to start?"

"It goes down tonight."

* * *

Tim Drake sighed, staring forlornly at the skyscrapers sprawling before the giant window.

He hated these 'bring your kids to work' days. His father always just left him to wander around the wide expanses of Drake Industries, meandering through corridor after corridor. The secretaries were always smiling when he entered the room, which was just as creepy as it sounded. He had half a mind to just jump out of this window- the few seconds he would spend falling would've had more excitement than the rest of his life.

He was pulled out of his thoughts by rambunctious laughter, as his father and his colleagues started towards him.

"That's when I said, 'hey, isn't that your wife?'"

Another chorus of nasally chortles. Tim rolled his eyes discreetly- his father never seemed to run out of terrible jokes, and his 'homies' never seemed to get enough.

"Hey there, Timbo!"

"Hi, dad."

"Aw, hey there, little guy," one of the men said. He crouched down to be eye level with Tim, which Tim didn't get, considering he wasn't that much shorter than him. "My name's James. You must be little Timmy."

Tim stared at him. "I'm fifteen."

James threw his head back and roared with laughter, as if it were a joke. "Jack, you've got a real gem there."

"Don't I know it. Say, why don't you tell them about the football match last week?"

"Dad," Tim mumbled, slightly blushing, "I didn't even play. I was just on the bench."

"And what a damn crime too! You could've run circles around them!"

Tim dug his nails into his palms. Truth was, he hated football, and he wasn't even remotely good. The only reason he'd signed up was because of his father, and the only reason he'd gotten in was, well, his father too. Still, it didn't help the embarrassment that came with his parents attending every game, only to ask why he never played.

The only worse thing he could think of was if he actually did play. That, Tim thought, would probably end in disaster.

"Well, it was nice to see you, Jack," James said. He and the other men were moving away. "And you too, kiddo. You'll be head of this company one day. I look forward to that!"

Tim screwed up his mouth in a hopefully authentic approximation of a smile. He watched as his father shook their hands and bid them farewell, still grinning like a maniac. Tim knew that he had no other choice than to succeed his father in the future. Still, though, Tim thought as he stared wistfully out the window.

Sometimes he felt like he was made to do bigger things.

* * *

Bruce Wayne looked at himself in the mirror.

He frowned, cocked his head to the side, and adjusted his tie slightly. There. Just perfect.

"Well, it only took forty years, but you've finally learned how to tie a tie by yourself."

Bruce smirked. "And how long did it take you, dad?"

"Too long," Martha Wayne concurred. "Bruce, you look fabulous."

Thomas frowned. "What about me?"

"You always look fabulous to me, darling."

Bruce shook his head at his parents' antics, instead opting to fix his hair. This gala was about opening jobs to those who lived in the Narrows, to hopefully stop the increasing crime rate from spiralling out of control.

Alfred's head popped through the doorway. "The first few guests are arriving, Masters. I suggest you get going."

"Will do, Alfred," Thomas called.

Martha smiled. "What would we do without you?"

"Starve, most likely."

Bruce grinned. Alfred was family in all but blood, and Bruce considered him a second father. Sometimes, he even went to Alfred before Thomas when dealing with problems he didn't want his father to know about. Every time, Alfred would listen patiently, then dispense his unfathomable wisdom. Bruce owed so many things to his butler.

As they walked towards the ballroom, Bruce noticed the pearl necklace around his mother's neck. Like every other time he saw it, his pulse began racing, and he had to remind himself that it had only happened once. He was in his house. He was safe.

Still, he couldn't help flashing back to that fateful night when he was eight, in that darkened alley outside the theatre. The man, the gun... if his hand hadn't been trembling, if he hadn't missed...

Well, Bruce reflected, he couldn't even imagine how his life would've turned out.

* * *

 **Hey guys! Yes, I'm not dead. Sorry for taking so long to do anything, I've just been dry out of ideas! Anyway, as you may have noticed, this is an AU where Bruce never became Batman, and all the boys never came together. (While somewhat similar to my other story As Fate Would Have It, this one is set in an entirely different universe so no magic trickery or anything unlike that one.) In my mind, Bruce would never have had Damian in this kind of world, so unfortunately he's probably not gonna appear. (I say probably. Maybe I'll find a way to include him.)**

 **Anyway, thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it! The next chapter will hopefully be up soon, but really, I'm terribly unorganised. Please feel free to leave a like/follow/review. You guys mean a lot to me! Until next time (and sorry for the terribly long A/N)!**


	2. Galas love bringing people together

Dick sucked in a breath, intensely looking at the files before him.

He knew that the only way to succeed was to be absolutely focused- not a breath, not even a sound, or else everything would come tumbling down.

"Kid-"

"Shhh."

"Officer Gray-"

"Shhhhhhh."

"Dick!"

"Wha- no! Look what you've done, commissioner!"

Jim massaged his temple. It had been a while since they'd had such a young officer in the department, and he remembered why.

"When I said 'make something of those files', I didn't mean... build something with them."

Dick pouted. "But it was a house! I was gonna provide shelter for that innocent mouse that's been scurrying around!"

"Just... forget the mouse."

"It's kind of hard to do that when someone screams every ten minutes," he pointed out. "Besides, you already have enough in these files to arrest the Black Mask. Why don't you just do it?"

Jim sighed. "It's not that easy, kid. Almost everyone in this city is being paid out by him- including, if speculation is to be believed, the mayor and the D.A. We need to catch him literally red-handed to do anything about it."

"That doesn't seem right." Dick frowned. "But you know he's guilty, don't you? Anyone can see that! Why can't we arrest him?"

"I'm sorry, but, that's just the way it is."

Dick leaned back in his chair, as far as he could without toppling over. Being in the GCPD was... different from what he'd imagined. He had heard about the unbelievable crime rate here, so he'd expected there to be cops rushing in and out at all times. But here he was, sitting, like he was waiting for something. Everyone in this room looked like they'd given up completely.

"Hey, kid."

"Hmm?"

Jim hesitated. "Don't let it get to you," he said, taking in Dick's dejected look. "Gotham can build just as much as it tears down."

"Really?" His voice was mild, but there was a hint of a challenge.

"Yeah. Look, kid... there's a gala tonight, that's raising funds towards the Narrows' Needs initiative. Giving jobs to the poor. If you want, you could come with me."

Dick cocked his head. "What are you trying to prove?"

"That Gotham isn't just a hell-hole," Jim said bluntly, although he himself didn't really believe it. But Dick Grayson was young, and bright, and Jim didn't want to take that away from him.

"And going to this gala will somehow make things better?"

"No, but... but it proves there are people who are willing to take action," he clarified. "And that you can be one of them."

Dick stared at him for a while.

"Okay," he said finally. "Let's see if you're right."

* * *

Stately Wayne Manor was already overstuffed with guests by the time Dick and Jim arrived. They made their way through the open pavilion and into the main room, where fancy lights were strung up by gold and silver string. Dick's eyes widened as he tried to take in everything at once; he had never been to such a beautiful place before, having been poor most of his life. It reminded him of the circus, dazzling and breathtaking.

Dick shook his head. He couldn't go down that path, not right now. He didn't want to embarrass the Commissioner.

Speaking of the Commissioner, he was currently near the wine bar, laughing at something. As Dick neared him, he could see a girl with shockingly red hair laughing with him. She locked eyes with Dick and smiled.

"Ah, Dick! There you are. I was afraid you'd gotten lost," Jim said. "This is my daughter, Barbara. Barb, this is our new transfer officer, Dick Grayson."

Barbara offered a hand. "It's nice to meet you, Mr. Grayson."

"Please, just call me Dick." He shook her hand with a firm grasp.

"Well, I'll leave you two kids to it," Jim said. He winked at Dick. "Don't do anything too naughty, now."

Dick's jaw dropped. "Commissioner, I won't-"

Jim Gordon slipped into the crowd, leaving a flustered Dick and an amused Barbara.

"You're not used to these parties, are you?" She asked, an eyebrow raised.

"You can tell?"

"You just spent the last few minutes gaping like you're in space. I'm the daughter of a detective." She shrugged. "Honestly, I'd be disappointed if I couldn't tell."

Dick blushed. "I'm not used to being so... fancy." He gestured down to his tux. "I've only ever worn these things once, and that was to go undercover."

"Well, I've gotta say it looks good on you." Barbara flushed suddenly. "Not that I was checking you out, or anything-"

"-No, I didn't think that at all. I mean, you look amazing, too! Well, no, I mean, you do look amazing, but not like in a sexual way- which is to say-"

Barbara burst into laughter, and after Dick fought off the heat rising in his cheeks, he joined in too.

He took a deep breath as soon as the chortles died down. "Sorry. I'm not good at, uh, mingling."

"Me neither." She smiled. "My advice is to just say they're super rich. Usually that gets them to do all the talking."

Dick snorted. "That can't work for real."

"Oh, you'd be surprised."

A shout came from the crowd to their left, and a girl waved brightly towards them.

"That's for me," Barbara grinned, waving back. "It was nice to meet you, Dick."

"You too, Barbara."

She sent him one last smile before disappearing into the crowd.

* * *

Tim stared at the drink in his hand, hoping that nobody would care if he took a sip.

Galas drove him crazy. He knew about the cause behind this one, and maybe that made him feel a bit better, but he knew that half the people here didn't know or didn't care about the poor people in the Narrows. They just wanted to 'have a good time', or something.

And, unfortunately, that portion of people included his dad.

So he spent these parties trailing after him, holding his drink when he needed to speak to an important businessman or woman. His mother would be gossiping with some ladies at a table, which Tim would honestly prefer to being his dad's chaperone. He tried to pinpoint where exactly she was, but there were so many flashy gowns and glowing necklaces that her own were hard to find. He spun around fruitlessly before realising that he'd lost his father as well.

"Great," Tim muttered. Another round of 'find you parents before somebody else finds you' begins."

He began to weave his way around the crowd, trying his best to ignore stares or greetings. Maybe he was ignoring things too hard, because the next thing he knew, he was on the floor.

"Oh, geez, kid, I didn't see you there."

Tim looked up at a man with bright blue eyes, staring at him with an easygoing smile. Tim tried to place him in that extensive list of rich celebrities in Gotham, but couldn't match him to anyone. A foreigner? Perhaps, but there was something vaguely familiar about him.

"It's okay," Tim said quietly. He picked himself up off the floor. "Sorry for ruining your shirt."

The man grinned. "It's okay. I never wear it anyways. Hey, aren't you a bit too young to be drinking alcohol?"

Tim blushed. "It- it's not mine. It's my dad's."

As if on cue, Jack Drake magically appeared out of the crowds, making their way towards him. Tim bit his lip. Of course he had to come when he made a mistake, just like always.

"Timbo! There you are! I was starting to think you'd run out on me."

"Dad," Tim greeted curtly. Jack noticed the stain on the man's shirt, and Tim's glass.

"My gosh, I'm so sorry! Tim, apologise to the young man!"

"I already did-"

"Now don't lie to me."

"But-"

"He already did, sir," the man broke in. He sent Tim a smile. "It was just an accident, right?"

Tim nodded his head furiously. Jack's frown eased slightly.

"Well, if you want, I can pay for the shirt."

"Oh, that's not necessary at all, Mr..."

"Drake. Jack Drake." They shook hands. "This is Tim, my son."

"Hello, Mr. Drake, Tim. My name's Dick Grayson."

Tim's heart came to a sudden stop in his chest. Dick Grayson... _the_ Dick Grayson? Tim's thoughts moved at 100 miles a minute. This was Dick Grayson, his childhood hero, the boy who could fly through the air with the greatest of ease- standing right in front of him! Was this real? Was fate ever this kind? He had just spilled a drink on _the_ Dick Grayson!

Wait a minute- he had just spilled a drink on Dick Grayson.

 _He had just spilled a drink on Dick Grayson._

"So, we're all good, right, Tim?" Dick Grayson was speaking to him. Think of something, Tim! Apologise again! Say you have his posters, say you were there that night! "Tim...?"

"Uh... I have to... go to the bathroom!"

Tim's legs were dragging him away before he could comprehend what had just happened. He ran through the crowds, occasionally shoving into people and once or twice falling down completely. He didn't stop running until he reached a secluded corner, where he sank to the ground and wrapped his arms around his knees.

He'd just embarrassed himself in front of the greatest acrobat in the world.

Tim couldn't see this day getting any worse.

* * *

From where he was standing, Jason could see most of the ballroom and a little bit of the pavilion. His fingers longed to light a cigarette, but he had to maintain appearances just for a little longer.

He'd been keeping an eye on his for some time now. It was pretty easy, though, as the Commissioner didn't belong here any more than Jason himself did. This place was for people swimming in wealth, pretending they're doing something good. Which basically whittles down to throwing money at poor people and hoping they'll disappear.

Jason hated these galas. He hated every single one of the people in this room, people who had never seen blood or felt the sting of starvation in their bellies. Who hadn't needed to claw their way out of poverty, who then looked down on those criminals on the streets. Who said they were disgusting, evil, cruel. But Jason knew the truth.

Nine times out of ten, they were just desperate.

So Jason didn't feel too bad about disrupting this gala. No, in fact, none of the people in this room were 'innocent'. All were complicit in the crime of turning a blind eye, no matter how philanthropic they thought they were.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Jim Gordon head to the wine bar, unaccompanied. His hand twitched to his bag.

He pulled out a red helmet.

Showtime.

* * *

 **Hey! I did it, I updated fast! Anyways, I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter, this is a really fun story to write. If you did enjoy it, please leave a like/follow/review! Thanks to those who did it in the last chapter, you guys make my day. I hope you all have a lovely time, until I see you again!**


	3. Chaos in the making

Dick was at the other end of the room when the screaming started.

His hands immediately searched for his gun, only to grasp nothing but air. He cursed under his breath- only rookie cops should've made that mistake- but shook his head. Self doubt would only slow him down. Looking around, he grabbed two baton-like decorations. It would have to do.

Running through the crowds, he skidded to a stop at the wine bar. His heart thudded in his chest. There, standing in the middle of a clearing the crowds had created, was the Red Hood, notorious hired assassin of the underworld. And staring down the void of the barrel at the other end was Commissioner Gordon.

This, Dick thought, was why he could never have a night off.

There were frightened murmurs as the crowds looked on, too paralysed to move but too afraid to come closer. Several of them were muttering silent prayers under their breath, while others were clutching their valuables to their chests in hopes that the criminal wouldn't steal them.

Typical. A life, no matter whose, was not worth several pearls and a credit card.

"Hello, Commissioner," the Red Hood snarked. "I'd say it's a pleasure, but it really isn't."

"Red Hood." The commissioner took a breath. "You don't have to do this, kid. You don't-"

"Trying to appeal to my 'soft side', Jim? You never change. I am not 'damaged' or 'insane', not like the rest of this crazy town. I'm just looking out for number one."

His finger moved towards the trigger, and without thinking, Dick threw one of his sticks. It flew in a perfect arc and hit the gun, knocking it out of Red Hood's hands and skidding it across the floor. Gordon took took no time in picking it up, pointing it towards Red Hood.

"Freeze!"

Red Hood's head whipped around to look at Dick, and Dick felt unnerved. The man was taller than him, and definitely bigger, but seemed younger by a few years. He wore a biker jacket with a plain white shirt, black jeans, and military boots. Casual, unlike the rest of Gotham's underbelly- except for the red helmet concealing his face. He pulled another firearm out from what looked like a utility belt.

"Well," Red Hood said calmly, seemingly not fazed by the gun trained on him by Commissioner Gordon. "The entertainment begins."

* * *

Jason was all for a fun time, but this wasn't quite what he expected.

He should've known the Commissioner wouldn't be an easy target, but neither was he a weak assassin. He had a rep to keep up, and he wasn't about to throw it away because some random pretty boy showed up and threw a goddamn stick at him.

He dodged Gordon's bullets with ease, aware that there were only 6 bullets in the barrel. (Yes, he forgets to refill sometimes. Bad habit). He fired off a round of his own, before being slammed sideways. He found himself trapped under the guy who had thrown the stick earlier.

"Well," he deadpanned, "this relationship is moving a bit too quickly for my tastes."

He grabbed the guys arm and twisted it backwards, hearing the satisfying yelp of pain. Pushing him aside, he dusted himself off before scanning the room. He spotted Gordon running towards the crowd, gesturing for them to leave through the door, as sirens began to wail in the distance.

Better make this quick, he thought grimly.

He aimed at the Commissioner's head, but before he could fire, he was tackled from behind. He managed to squeeze a shot out but only managed to hit Gordon in the leg.

"You just never quit, do you?!" Jason yelled, turning around to face his attacker.

The man cocked his head, his face wearing a casual expression but his eyes saying different. "Yeah. And some would say that's my biggest charm."

He launched into a somersault, kicking Jason square in the chest. Jason felt the air whoosh out of his lungs and he tumbled to the ground. Dodging the man's fists, he rolled out and stood back up again, rubbing his chest. This guy fought fast and hard, which was not something he was used to.

"Who are you?" Jason demanded.

The only response he got was an uppercut to the jaw. Jason's mind scrambled to find a strategy, but he was coming up empty. He quickly kicked at the man's legs, sending him to the floor, before holding a gun to his face.

"Don't move."

The man stared at him, bright blue eyes unblinking. Jason frowned. He didn't look like he was from Gotham- no, with skills like that, if he had been raised in Gotham he'd be a criminal mob boss by now.

Or maybe not. Something about this guy just screamed 'born hero'.

"Aren't you gonna kill me?" The man never took his eyes off of Jason's.

Jason scoffed. "Lucky for you, I was only hired to take down the Commissioner. You better skip town, though- or you'll be next."

"You're a criminal. Aren't you supposed to just kill everyone you get your hands on?"

"That's not very open-minded, is it?" He took out rope and started to tie the man's hands and feet together, all the while keeping the barrel trained towards him. The man didn't struggle.

"Why not just kill me?"

Jason finished tying the ropes and stood up, choosing to ignore the question. The fact of the matter was, he never killed unless he got something out of it. He never killed civilian witnesses or other people he wasn't hired to kill- but of course he'd never admit that, because rules were weaknesses, and weaknesses were something he couldn't afford to have.

He stalked down to where Commissioner Gordon lay, who was desperately trying to staunch the blood flow in his leg. He took a deep breath.

"This is nothing personal," he stated, aiming the gun. "Look on the bright side- at least you'll be free from this godforsaken town-"

"Dad!"

A girl appeared, rushing towards the duo. Her hair was as red as Gordon's blood.

"Barbara... no..." The Commissioner coughed weakly, trying to shoo her away. "I'm... fine..."

"No, you're not!" The girl- Barbara, his daughter- was crying. She marched in front of Jason's barrel, her eyes flaring. "You'll have to go through me if you want to get to him."

"What makes you think I won't do just that?"

And her lip trembled, betraying just how afraid she was. But she didn't budge. And Jason, try as he might, couldn't find the strength within him to pull the trigger.

Jim Gordon was a father. He was about to take away someone's father.

Suddenly, the doors burst open, and the cops poured in. Various guns trained on Jason.

"Freeze!" A cop yelled. "Put your hands in the air!"

Jason stared at Barbara, who was biting her lip, tears still streaming down. And he lowered the barrel.

The last thing he saw as he was being stuffed into the car was the man he had tied up, freed from his bonds, staring at him with the strangest expression on his face.

* * *

Tim couldn't sleep.

Actually, it'd be a miracle if he could even lie down. Jittery energy pounded through his veins, like sugar and caffeine all poured in litres through his nose. Okay, weird metaphor, but basically Tim couldn't sleep because what had been destined to be just another gala turned into a _cop-villain shootout._

He had met Dick Grayson, his childhood idol, and he had spoken to him! Sure, he hadn't made the best first impression, but Tim could work on it. Now that he had had a little time to cool off, he could see that his reputation was salvageable. And the best part of all- Dick Grayson was an actual hero! Tim had watched, crouched in one of the shadowy corners of Wayne Manor, as he had fought the villain- with sticks, no less!- and basically stalled him until the police arrived. Like a real-life superhero.

Tim had never known heroes could exist in real life, much less he be one of the people to know them.

He sprawled across his bed, eyes shining with wonder. The scene from the gala replayed in his head over and over again, with Dick Grayson flipping about like he was putting on a show. If Tim really concentrated he could still see the eight-year-old boy flying through the trapeze, smiling, but then the memory gets fuzzy and the lines snap and there's a horrible sound like bones breaking-

But no. That was the past now, and wasn't it even more amazing that Dick turned out this way? All his life Tim had thought tragedy only spurred tragedy. Maybe he was wrong- maybe, once in a blue moon, a tragedy could create something greater.

Tim rolled over in his bed, sighing dramatically as he leaned his body over the edge and pressed his forehead against the floor. What now, though? Tim was sick and tired of doing... doing what? That was the real problem, really. Tim was sick and tired of doing _nothing._

Under his bed, he spotted an old, dusty box. His eyes lit up in recognition. Taking it out, he blew off the dirt and opened it. How long had it been since he'd taken down these posters? He shook them out, wiping the dust off of Dick's parents' faces. The words 'The Flying Graysons' were displayed in shining colours.

Why had he even taken them down? Right, it was his mother- 'now Timothy, don't you think it's a bit morbid to have these up?' And in a way she was right. But as he ripped off globs of blue-tack and stuck it back on his bare, unpainted wall, he couldn't help thinking it belonged there.

He looked at the clock. 12:30 pm. There was no way he could get to sleep tonight, even if he tried. He looked back at the poster.

Turning around slowly, he slid back under his bed and grabbed what he was looking for. He used his shirt to wipe the dirt off the lens, spitting when it wouldn't rub off. Eventually, the dust cleared, and he stared at his own reflection.

He promised not to do this anymore. He promised to be good.

Slinging the camera around his neck, opening the window, he decided he didn't really care about being good anymore.

* * *

 **Argh! I actually posted this chapter 2 freaking days ago, but something happened and it didn't show up as being updated! This is super annoying. Anyways, to those that have already read the third chapter (somehow, I'm not sure how that works) sorry this isn't an actual update, but just a re-post so that the stupid glitch doesn't happen again. Here was the original A/N:**

 **Hey! Okay, I know this has been ages and I'm super bad at keeping a schedule, but at least it's finally here, right? Thanks for all the reviews and support you've all been giving to me (especially in these looong breaks), and feel free to like/follow/review (I say this every single time, don't I? It's like a luck mantra). You guys all make my day, week, and year. Hope you enjoyed reading!**


	4. Just a bunch of cliffhangers

Bruce stood in the middle of the ballroom, surveying the damage.

A bullet had embedded itself into the far wall, the pristine white marred by an intrusive crater. The blood, a small pool in the center of the room, was being attended to by Alex with a mop. Bruce sighed as he took a seat in one of the remaining chairs yet to be cleaned up.

Bruce had always known about the crime in Gotham- of course he had, he'd lived here his whole life. But being rich and privileged had distanced himself from that reality, whether he wanted to admit it or not. His whole life had been surrounded by smiles and money and pampering. The last time he'd been this close to a crime- to death, and its awful ringing- he'd been eight.

Sighing, he fiddled with his suit. Sometimes he wondered if donating and raising funds for charity was enough. Should he be doing something more? What would that even be?

"Bruce, there you are!"

Bruce turned and gave a half-hearted smile. "Hey mom. Just... checking things out here."

Martha pursed her lips. "It wasn't a total disaster. We raised a lot of money, you know-"

"Right. Money."

"Bruce..."

"I... Sorry, mom. It's just..." Bruce tried to sort out his thoughts, order them in a way she could understand. "Those guests could've died, and I could've done nothing about it."

"You're just one man, Bruce. What do you think you could've done?"

"Something!" Bruce turned to face Martha, fists clenched. "We've donated and donated and donated, yet nothing ever gets better. The slums are still there, people are just as poor as ever! And the crime never stops either- walk down the streets and you can see it. It sometimes feels like none of us are making a difference."

"Oh, honey, where did this all come from?" She put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"I don't know. I don't... it doesn't matter. It's just paranoia, or something stupid."

"No. No, it's not stupid to want to save the world, Bruce. It's noble."

"It'd be more noble if we could go and do it."

Martha sighed. "You're so much like your father, you know. He became a surgeon because he wanted to help people in need. And he did, he does, and so do you. You may think we're not making a difference, but talk to someone we've helped. Someone who now has a job, because of our initiative- because of us."

Bruce gave Martha a forced smile. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess we have helped, huh."

But something inside Bruce refused to let him sit idle. Some strange feeling had erupted inside his chest, like a strange longing.

He sighed. Whatever it was, there was nothing he could do about it now.

* * *

The cold morning air bit at Tim's cheek.

Well, 'morning' was kind of a stretch. The pale dawn light filtered its way through heavy clouds, casting shadows around Gotham. It was an ugly blotchy orange, reminding Tim of an irradiated sky. Smoke hung heavy in the air.

He clutched his camera close to his chest. Alarm bells were ringing in his mind- what exactly did he intend to do here? Sure, he had been so full of purpose, so sure of himself when he had been leaving. But here, now, before the world woke and when the criminals still lingered, fear began leaving its cold fingerprints on his skin.

Maybe he should turn back. Maybe he should just go to sleep.

But before he could make up his mind, he suddenly froze. Inside a darkened alleyway he could see two men, gathered around a crate.

"Ah, look at this!" a man exclaimed, blonde hair catching the thin shaft of light from above.

"Told ya I got good sources. Whatcha gonna do with it?"

"With these babies? Anything I want!" His voice lowered. "Heard there's a sale at the Gotham Bank. Bring a gun, get a million dollars."

Their laughter sent shots of ice through Tim's veins. There was no doubt that guns were contained in that crate.

"Man, Zucco also knows what a man needs," the man with the blonde hair said. Taking out what looked to be a pistol, he held it to his face. "Beautiful. Just... beautiful."

"Hey Arthur-"

Tim suddenly spun around, turning to face a a long, lanky man holding a gun. His breath caught in his throat. The man's eyes widened as he took in Tim's presence, and then landed on the camera clutched tightly in Tim's fingers.

"Hey-!"

Tim took off, running as fast as he could, which unfortunately was not very fast. He had never been the most athletic person, and what was more, he was rather short for his age. The three men soon surrounded them, each carrying their own fancy weapon.

"Well well well boys, look what we have here." The blonde-haired man sneered at Tim.

"I... I didn't..." Tim was at a loss for words. "I didn't... take any pictures..."

"Oh no, I'm sure you didn't," said the man that had first seen Tim. His shirt was dotted with stains, like polka-dots. "But just in case, we'll take that."

"No!" Tim lunged forwards but they had snatched the camera up high. The blonde-haired man- their seeming leader- inspected it, before promptly smashing it on the ground.

Tim immediately dived to the ground, picking up the bits and pieces of metal. Tears started welling in his eyes. It had been a gift from his parents many years ago, special because it had been one he'd actually liked. Years and years of birthdays, holidays, memories, moments- all gone in an instant, bleeding out onto the cracked tarmac.

"Aw, poor little baby, about to cry," the third man mocked. "Shouldn't we do something?"

"Well, let's put this poor thing out of his misery, hm? You're not going to be telling anyone anything, are you?"

Tim shook his head frantically, tears spilling over.

The polka-dot man laughed. "Too bad we can't take any chances. Arthur?"

Arthur- the leader- put his gun to Tim's forehead. "Don't mind if I do."

Suddenly, a flying blur came out of nowhere, knocking the pistol out of Arthur's hands. The other two men barely had a second to gasp before being knocked out cold by a girl dressed in purple pajamas, a black scarf covering half her face. She delivered a solid roundhouse kick to Arthur, sending him tumbling to the asphalt. All Tim could hear was the groans of the men, and the ringing in his ears of an averted disaster.

"Sorry 'bout that," the girl said, kneeling down next to him. "It seemed like a nice camera."

"I-It's okay," Tim stuttered, once he found his voice. "Who... are you?"

The girl stood up, offering her hand to him. "The name's Stephanie," she declared proudly. "But you can call me Spoiler."

* * *

The air conditioner must have had something stuck inside it, because Jason was feeling very, very uncomfortable.

He chafed at the handcuffs and groaned. It was no use even jailing him, because Black Mask had cops on the inside who'd get him out as soon as Gordon turned the other way. That wouldn't stop him though, because Jim was an optimist, which Jason knew would get Jim nowhere.

The heavy door swung open and Jason tensed, ready to bear Jim's incessant questioning. However, it wasn't the Commissioner that stepped through the door.

"You," Jason said, a tone of surprise in his voice he couldn't mask.

The man who he had fought in the gala took a seat, and Jason couldn't help noticing his uniform. Of course he was a cop, Jason just had that kind of luck.

"Jason, right?" The man said, opening his file. "Jason Peter Todd."

"Yes, thank you for reminding me of my full name. I was afraid I was going to forget."

The ends of his mouth quirked up, and Jason took this in. A sense of humour. That was better than 90% of the other cops here, at least.

"You gonna introduce yourself?"

The man scrunched up his nose. "If I do, you're not allowed to joke about it."

"Joke about it?" Jason raised his eyebrow. "Well now I'm curious. No guarantees, though."

"I'm Officer Grayson," the man started slowly. "But... you can call me Dick."

Jason couldn't help the guffaw that burst out of his mouth. Dick- oh god this is too good- sent him a glare, but his smile betrayed his amusement.

"So you're asking me to call you Dick?"

"Yes. But if you want to be immature, Officer Grayson is fine."

"Geez, I'm sorry, man," Jason said after the laughter subsided. "Your parents must really hate you."

The smile on Dick's face disappeared, and Jason immediately felt a stone drop into his stomach. He reassessed the man in front of him. Perhaps he wasn't as squeaky clean as Jason had originally thought.

"...What did you want, anyway?" Jason broke the silence first. "It's hot as hell in here, so you didn't come in here to relax."

Dick shifted around in his seat. "No, of course not. I just... wanted to talk to you."

Jason leaned back in his chair. "That's a first."

"Really? Nobody's ever wanted to talk to you?

"Well, no goody-two-shoes cop, that's for sure. Especially not someone I've tried to kill."

"Except you didn't."

"What?"

"Except you didn't try to kill me," Dick repeated, blue eyes shining in something akin to determination. "You could've, but you didn't. Why?"

Jason shrugged as nonchalantly as he could, feeling even hotter under his intense gaze. "I had a target. Why waste my time on you?"

"Except you didn't kill him, either," Dick pointed out.

"Oh, so you're scolding me for not murdering your boss? I'll gladly do it if you let me out, then."

Dick gave him a look that said he wasn't taking the bait. Jason gave a sigh of frustration.

"Look, I just didn't feel like killing you, okay? You were already tied up. There was no point."

"You didn't shoot Barbara, either. She was the only one in your way."

"Okay! Yes, I was being an idiot, is that what you want me to say? What do you want from me?!"

Dick stared at Jason, head cocked slightly, as if reading his mind. And Jason hated this. He slumped down in his chair.

"...Why did you become a criminal?"

"What?" Jason shot him a skeptical glare. "Are you serious? You're not a psychiatrist. I'm not just gonna spill my problems to you."

Dick frowned. "I don't think you're as bad a person as you pretend to be, Jason. So I want to help you."

"Help me?" Jason laughed, and then stopped when he saw Dick's face. "Oh. You're not kidding." He shrugged. "Listen, whatever you think you can do here, no matter how skilled you are at fighting or talking or if you're good-looking or whatever, you're not going to change this place. Or me."

"I can try."

Jason searched his face for a sign of sarcasm, or anything, really. But all he saw was fierce determination. It could have been inspiring, if it weren't so sad.

"Look, Dick- I spared your life and hers. That doesn't make me a good person. And one day, you're going to lose something in Gotham, and realise that nothing here is worth saving. Least of all the criminals. So take my advice from earlier and get out of here."

The door swung open once again, and this time the Commissioner did step through, pausing when he saw Dick.

"Officer," the Commissioner said, "what-"

"We were just having a chat," Dick said quickly. He stood up to leave, but not before turning back to Jason one last time. Jason tensed, waiting.

But he didn't say anything, instead walking out of the room wordlessly, shutting the door behind him.

* * *

 **Hey guys! Okay, okay, I _know_ it's been a century since I last updated. But I hope this makes up for the long wait! It also just occurred to me how frustratingly difficult it is to write Bruce, since he's not the same Batman that we all know (and love). So, yeah, if he's not quite in character, that's because his whole backstory's different and he never went all dark and broody.**

 **Thanks for every single review I've gotten, and all the likes and follows too! If you enjoyed this, please feel free to leave a like/follow/review, and check out my profile for some of my other stories.**

 **Until next time (cross your fingers it isn't next year)!**


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